He took off his hat, and seated himself by the table--a home-like figure, which Mr. Gray felt was in its place again. He leaned his forehead on his hand, and looked down thoughtfully--an old position in his blindness, which Mr. Gray had often watched, and which drew again more forcibly the heart of the watcher towards him. That heart might have been a little estranged since yester-night; it had borne no malice, but it had thrilled a little at his daughter's confession, and the thought had crossed it that Sidney Hinchford might have spared Mattie an avowal of such weak love as had been borne towards her. Sid had guessed Mattie's secret, perhaps, and taken pity upon her; he was generous enough for that, but he had forgotten that Mattie was not humble enough to accept it. Mr. Gray could almost believe now that all had been a mistake, which Sidney's presence there would satisfactorily explain; and yet Sidney's thoughtfulness and restlessness forebade it. Sidney looked towards him suddenly. "What are you thinking of?" "Of the change in you, Sidney--and of the home that it really looks again for a little while." "For a little while," echoed Sidney; "oh! you will not explain--call Mattie, then, and let us end this. I always hated mystery," he added, a little peevishly. Before Mr. Gray could cross the room to fulfil his partner's commands, the door opened. Mattie entered, and paused upon the threshold with her hands to her quickly-beating heart. "Sidney here--at last?" she faltered forth. "Yes, at last," he said, advancing towards her; "_at last_, as your father has said, and now you. I have returned to find that you have both lost confidence in me, and both misunderstood me cruelly." "I hope not, Sidney." They shook hands together, and looked one another long and steadily in the face. "It is upwards of a year since I have seen you, Mattie. It is the same hopeful, earnest face, that I have ever known--can there be a difference in me?" "No, you are unchanged." "You both thought that I had forgotten you?" "No." "You must prove it by your old ways, then; or I shall never think this place the dear home I left a month ago." "You have come back to----" "To stop! Why not?--don't you wish it?" "I--I will tell you presently--give me time, Sidney." "I am in no hurry," he answered, coldly.